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When I am pressed to discuss an artist such as Elvis Costello, I feel very much like a vegetarian restaurant critic sent to review a steak and ribs house. In each case, questions of quality, style, and content are rendered moot by personal biases and values. Costello, one of the most written-about, controversial, self-consciously mysterious overanalysed pop stars of this or any era, is generally recognized by the rock press and his moderate-sized following as a songwriting genius and possibly the most significant exponent of the punk/new wave movement. Yet, while I might be forced to give some ground in a tete-a-tete with Costello’s more articulate supporters. I would undoubtedly come away from the fray clinging fiercely to the same conclusion; Costello is overrated and not to my liking.
I am not puzzled by Costello’s reputation as a darling of the press. It is my opinion that the typical rock critic is a frustrated nonmusician whose pen works at peak efficiency when dipped in the ink of bitter sarcasm. For such critics, a favorite target is the pop star with loads of talent and sex appeal and these writers rub their hands and cackle when given the opportunity to pan such artists as Michael McDonald, Stevie Wonder, or Paul McCartney (the last-named, even given the mostly execrable output of his solo career, wrote enough great material in the Sixties to enable him to rest on his Beatles-period laurels for the rest of the century). Simply put, these artists are cursed with having too much going for them. Critics prefer underdogs, especially ones that bark loudly, and this explains why a presumably angry wimp like Costello keels them at full drool.
But when you get past Costello’s “anger,” past his supposedly incisive lyrics that direct klieg lights at the hypocrisies of the bedroom and the boardroom, past the gimmick of his skinny, pigeon-toed, Buddy Holly glasses antihero image, there isn’t much left but a study in dramatic contradictions. Costello represents fisted, balls-out directness and honesty, yet couldn’t bring himself to go by his given name (Declan McManus), and instead chose a ridiculous, stagey nom de croon. He performed at numerous anti-racism event in England before becoming famous, then referred to Ray Charles as a ”blind, ignorant nigger” during an epithet-hurling session with Bonnie Bramlett, in which he made countless defamatory remarks about American blacks and “stupid” black music. He has wrung world-navigating mileage from lyrics that shout of his unwillingness to be victimised by the deceits of the love game, as entrapment he views as a reflection of the oppressive nature of society at large, then embraces the George Jones style of country and western music that is saturated in self-pity and lovelorn melodrama.
I think Costello’s a phony. I think he came along at a time when critics were having a difficult time getting a firm handle on the proliferating new wave movement, and Costello with his twerpy, attention-getting looks, quirky songs that at least made enough sense to invite criticism, and aggressive persona, presented critics with a ready-made focal point and flagship for that genre. If Costello was the right sound and look at the right time, his amphetamine belligerence and chirping Farfisa organ-dominated sound were not then, and are not now, welcome on my turntable. When I want to be barked at, I’ll stick with more muscular, more imaginative dogs such as the Stones, the Pretenders, and the Clash, and not settle for a Chiahuahua yapping into a megaphone. Costello will be joined by L.A.’s Plimsouls for a concert Saturday night at the Open-Air Amphitheatre at SDSU.
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